


The Hand That Feeds

by Englass



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Horror, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Minor Violence, Monsters, Plot Twists, Shadow Monsters, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, dead bodies, heed the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englass/pseuds/Englass
Summary: Joseph loves his brothers, dearly so, and without a doubt would do absolutely anything for them.However, it would seem that there are some secrets that are worth keeping. Despite the dangers that may come with them...
Relationships: Joseph Seed & Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	The Hand That Feeds

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a Halloween fic, but I didn’t get it out in time and got caught up doing other stuff; so… I’m posting it now instead 😅

There is a crisp chill in the air, a teasing nip that plays between the trees in the early hours of the morning. The mountains shrouded by an ominous stillness, an aching anticipation that casts a withering glance over the flora, and pressurises the fauna into a tight silence. The autumn moon is unusually bright, a golden glow of cold warmth that beckons monsters from the shadows of towering trees. With painted grins and wisps of midnight, dancing to haunted tunes in the wind’s quiet breath, they writhe from below in a giddily, twisted greeting. **  
**

Skittish deer tread with a hurried caution, eager and wary of the new danger that has sidled into the already tense County with salivating maws. Rabbits and foxes scurry urgently into their respective burrows, praying with flicking ears and twitching noses that they will be spared this night’s patrol. Grizzled bears of mighty stature and shortened tempers do not so much as huff into the chilling air, vanishing into the back of rocky dens with a respectful fear.

Even the Judges, rabid wolves fused and mangled by twisted drugs, nature’s noble guard turned traitorous war-machine, whimper and cower behind the bars of their cages. Their distant eyes are blown wide, torn ears pulled as flat as they can go against their heads in a pleading submission; looking like abused puppies waiting for the next beating.

Members of the resident cult which created the canid abominations look on with a perturbed curiosity, glancing to their peers in muted question. Even the prisoners housed in their own separate cells, getting what little rest they can while apprehensively awaiting their fateful turn at the infamous trails, grip the cool bars with sweaty palms and flickering gazes. One cult member clangs a metal pipe against one of the cages, snarling at the once fearsome canines to shut up.

They merely ignore them.

With a sudden bellow the wind wails, pained and ailed with a sound unlike any other chasing its current. The Judges tuck together tightly, bundling into corners with a flurry of frenzied whines and whimpers. Each huddling over the other in a vain attempt to distance themselves from the harrowed sound – distant and near, everywhere and nowhere – that swallows the County in a foreboding fever.

The wide and open plains of the valley, stretching for miles upon miles in a wide and grand gesture, shrinks in on itself; claustrophobic and vulnerable. The rivers and winding terrain of the Henbane bares no better. The water that weaves by with a joyful wave now slowing to a jolted crawl, hesitant to risk even the slightest brush against the darkened shore’s edges. Even the areas and creatures blessed by corruption, poisoned by a blissful chemical that ravages all it touches, pause in their homely madness to listen in on the warning cry with a fleeting lucidity.

Those still awake, soldiers and leaders on both fronts of the County’s civil war, also stop to listen in on the howl. Turning to the distance and their respective peers with tight expressions. Old superstitions, creeping like folkloric monsters, taking centre stage at the forefront of their whirring minds.

Yet, not all are concerned by such worries; their beliefs an impractical shield against the unknown, and the unholy that stalk its shade.

Although the local cult’s oldest founder may stand tall, rifle posed at his side as he scouts his given territory with a critical and cautious eye, and the youngest may tuck himself safely away within the walls of his rustic home with taboo comforts, the middle and ruling founder does neither. Fearless amongst the whispers that kiss across the trees, cold warnings foolishly unheeded, as he travels through the thick woodland with a cool resolve. A wheelbarrow covered by a stained and dirty tarp, filled with a caring offering, pushed steadily along in front of him; creaking over flimsy sticks and dying leaves. 

Other than his own steps and the subtle squeal of the wheelbarrow’s wheel, the silence hangs like a swinging body. The chilling atmosphere wound tight into a strangling hold that refuses to let up, only tightening the more you seek to escape it. Not that the prophet, Joseph, does so. Instead, he only walks deeper into the thicket. Gaze hardly wavering as blinking dashes of light turn and watch with open jaws, following with whispering breaths until he eventually comes to a small clearing. The moon’s golden shine a halo that bars the woodland’s shadows, holding them at bay.

It is a mere break in the tree line, nothing overly noteworthy about it; other than the turned over grass and what appears to be torn fabric abandoned near the centre. An odd shimmer, reflective of light touching liquid, faintly catches on the ruined blades of grass in speckled sparkles everytime the prophet moves even the slightest amount. Stains of an unknown colour painting the destroyed fabric in dark, but faded streaks. Splatterings reminiscent of a child flinging a drowning paintbrush on the remains of what might have been someone’s clothing; buttons pulled from their stitchings, and what looks to be some sort of a badge or branding now muddied and frayed with time.

Joseph does not attempt to make the latter out.

The charismatic leader, unaware of the tension that prowls the woodland just as menacingly as the monsters that inhabit it, comes to a stop just short of the centre of the clearing. His gem blue eyes staring blankly down at the shredded clothing before turning to the tarp-covered wheelbarrow; his hands relenting in his firm grip to fall at his sides, straightening himself. Ominously the moon casts a blinding glare across the preacher’s tinted glasses, blanketing his expression in an unreadable mask, as he reaches to grip the tarp and, with a flourish, yank it off and behind him.

There is a stuttered breeze, a shaky breath that rustles the leaves like a haunted windchime; ting-ing around the clearing like a ceremonial bell. The unseen occupants at the edges of the woodland, hidden behind and between the spindly trees that seem to stretch on forever, hissing a hungry appreciation at the meal that has been so graciously put on display before them. A silver service so grand and appetising that the saliva runs like a fetid stream; a banquet worthy of the darkest of creatures.

Three bodies, bent and blanched and broken, make their home in the bloodied wheelbarrow, a small bath of coagulated blood pooling at the base. Tough flesh and stiffened muscle the main course in this disturbing meal. The clothing, though now soiled and damp, still hugs what remains of the unfortunate souls that have become this night’s offering. The banner in which they fell under, be it Resistance or Eden’s Gate, bearing no deterrents while under judgement.

Joseph’s expression remains unchanged, unbothered by the deceased members of, not only the opposing Resistance but, of his own following. Two of the three that make up this crude dish found to be unworthy in their fickle devotion to the Project; and in turn to the love of the Father. It is a pity, truly, but such shaken resolves’ have no place within their community; their sins a disease that does nothing but spread the fear of doubt. Converts the worthy into instruments of slander and distrust. In their case, such a disease had only one cure. 

Yet, their departure is not a vain one. For although they were found to be unworthy in life their deaths do hold a semblance of worth in the nourishment their bodies may provide; a suitable meal for the unholy abomination that roams the County with a silent footfall. A consuming fury left in Its wrathful wake, devastating in Its own divinity, and monstrous in the horrowed tales that follow It in murmured tellings. A might and ferocity that is never seen, but only heard of. A legend that might not quite be a legend.

With a weighty exhale Joseph steps back, grass bending under foot with a distant sound; suffocated by the tension that lines the clearing and waits with a bated breath. Anticipation mounting as the shadows edge a little closer, jaws opening wider in crooked smiles as they gradually reach out from between the trees with raw-boned claws toward the slowly retreating preacher. Unassuming as their firefly eyes glow a misleading white between the creaking limbs of the living woodland; safe and beckoning. A tempting refuge to be found within the widely dilated, and giddily ravenous confines, of their eternal hunger. A special kind of purgatory for the lost and unwanted in this forsaken land.

_If only he would step a little closer…_

A sharp cry slashes through the County, tearing up the air with a brutal shriek that has its denizens – mortal and otherwise alike – pausing with stilted breaths. A high and wailed noise that has hunters spinning with raised guns and dancing eyes, animals cowering with frantic whines and thundering hearts, and the shadows that haughtily prowl these fiendish nights shrivelling in on themselves with drying maws and sharply constricting eye-lights. A paranoid worry urging the unknown into a testing submission.

There are bigger monsters than them in this County, after all.

Joseph stands by the border within the clearing, still and tense; just out of reach from the once greedy claws that were so eager to grab a hold of him. Swallowing thickly the preacher feels himself trembling, nerves vibrating rapidly as fear rushes through his bloodstream like a drug. His eyes planted across from him to watch as the shadows move and undulate, crawling away as a high pitched hiss drags across bark with lazy talons. Snapping twigs and crunching leaves a toll that has the creatures already here backing down with hanging heads and fleeing forms.

With his form trembling, fingers twitching from the chill that has taken him, Joseph steels himself. A quick inhale held as his hands loosen and then ball into tight fists, nails biting into his palm as he steadies himself; resolute. There is no need for him to be afraid after all. He has faith, and with it he knows that they will not hurt him. Despite how instinct may scream otherwise.

There is a deathly silence that has taken over. Blanketing the clearing with a spider’s web of pressure that is not so easily levied. Joseph watches as a silhouette, darker than the shadows that followed him here, begins to take shape between the trees. A hulking creature that makes neary a sound as It slowly comes closer. Stopping just before the moon’s luminescent glow can touch It, barely grazing through the shade that the towering trees see fit to veil It under. 

The shadows that have not quite left, hungry for the vicious slaughter that is no doubt about to take place, sway with a non-existent breeze. Antsy in this unexpected turn as time passes by like a dying man; agonisingly slow. 

Although the tension is high, the autumn air nippy, and ultimately with his life potentially on the line, Joseph smiles softly at the hidden creature. Head tilting curiously as he regards Its shielded form with a kind eye. Anxiety abandoned as he dons his given mantle, reaching out with a tender tone and parental patience as he gently starts to speak to It; a long time coming. 

“My child…” he murmurs with an edge of delirious awe, “you’re here. I must admit, I grew worried when you didn’t turn up the last time I was here. I feared the worst.” There is a heavy, but slow breath; a hiss of air as the creature shifts. Joseph knows It is watching him, and his smile gets a little wider. “Please,” he gestures loosely, carefully, “I know you must be hungry. There is no shame in what you must do, just as there is no shame in what I must do. There is no judgment between us, for it is all a part of God’s will, of his great and divine plan. And who am I to deny such a calling?

“So please, won’t you come and eat? Won’t you let me see you…?”

Another dragging hiss, low and gravelled, crawls across the clearing. A monster in itself as the night’s chill creeps a little closer, brushing bone as its caress slips past and under the skin in venturing touches. There is a subtle clicking layered under the serpentine sound. Intermingled between the throaty rumbles that claw to the surface when Its hiss is pitched too low, bordering too close to an actual growl; a warning without words.

For a fleeting second the preacher entertains the idea of walking up to It, coaxing It out of the darkness and into this fulfilling night with hands outstretched; open and accepting. Ideally it would be a beautiful and symbolic moment. A true exchange of understanding as he made a step toward saving this poor creature from Its damnation. However, the reality of such an action would be far more gruesome.

Joseph may be hopeful, a little naive when under the presence of his unwavering faith, but he is not a fool. A monster is still a monster, just like a sinner is still a sinner. It is all a matter of control. Of owning your sins and resisting the temptations that call to them with domineering appetites. It is about management and acceptance, pledging to be better than the sins that make a slave of you. At least, that is what Joseph tries to teach.

Instinct, in theory, is not all that dissimilar. With enough time and patience, the right incentives, even the most terrible of creatures can be tempered and made to heel. His older brother’s pet wolves are an example of that. Yet, natural instinct is still a very different beast to conscious sin. Such things are harder to correct and manage with a feral mind, after all.

Thankfully _They_ are not as feral as others may first believe them to be.

There is another rumbling breath, heavy with a buried rattle, before the creature moves; slow and almost cautionary in Its approach. The moon’s ethereal touch gradually urging the creature into its warm glow, and finally into Joseph’s sight. His breath hitching at the ivory snout that emerges from the shadows that cling to It so lovingly. Possessive in their hold as their tendrils are pried away to reveal an open jaw with bared fangs and cleanly picked bone; Its eyes empty save for the sentient abyss that calls Its sockets home.

A menacing hand, clawed and gangly, slips through the darkened tree line and into the light. Gripping onto the nearest tree as if to pull Itself free, digging into the bark with a sudden splinter, as Its other hand tears across and into an opposing tree. Holding Itself up between the two of them with a guttural sound as Its skeletal head hangs to the side; bowed, but not submissive. 

The captured preacher watches as Its jaw opens a little more. A puff of cold air huffing from the chasm of Its maw, before Its claws loosen in their crushing hold on the trees; the creature’s hands languidly sliding down the scratched bark It has abused in order to rest on the grass beneath It. For a few tense seconds It holds there. Head turned to the side, still watching the prophet with voided sockets, before it moves again; stalking slow and low out into the clearing. Taking Its time as Its skinny, but large, body fully emerges from the surrounding forestry. Shadows desperately stretching as if to pull It back; to tempt It home into their fervid embrace. It ignores them. Non-existent eyes piercing through the pious fanatic that stands so bravenly before It. Creeping ever closer with a building swab of saliva drooling from between the gaps in Its bared teeth.

Its hands drag with every step, knuckles brushing the ground as Its claws curl into Its palm. A sway in Its prowl, skull rolling with Its smooth, but heavy movements. Unconcerned as It treads across tattered clothing, barely tilting Its head in acknowledgment, as Its quadrupedal form comes to a measured stop beside the prophet’s gift. Another puff of cold air once more bleeding between the gaps in Its teeth. 

From the original distance held between them, to nearly beside him, Joseph had forgotten just how large the creature was. Its head, ducked but no doubt looking up at him despite their lack of conventual eyes, comes up to about his chest. Its body tucked under Itself in a hunch that makes Its movement look unnatural. It’s appearance weak and feeble looking; submissive and uncomfortably awkward. It is a great deception that Its sedated pace only seems to strengthen.

The black quill-like feathers on the back of Its neck, iridescent like a magpie’s under the shifting glow of the moon, raise much like the heckles of a dog. Standing on end as they vibrate, shimmying to create a rustling sound. It mimics the shake of blowing leaves in windy weather, or even the threatening rattle of an angered snake’s tail, as Its head finally turns to regard the preacher head on; the chasm of Its nose as dark and absorbing as the sockets of Its empty eyes. 

With the same cautious and measured movements that brought It here, the creature raises a gangly hand. It brushes the side of the wheelbarrow, the side of Its boney limb sliding up against the metal, until Its hand reaches the rim; fingers flexing curiously when they are met with open air, before curling steadily over it. Using the wheelbarrow as leverage as It pulls Itself up onto Its hind legs. The wheelbarrow tipping just slightly under the weight, as It looms hauntingly over the preacher. Stepping closer until Its free hand comes to grab Joseph’s nearest wrist; Its thin hand taking up near enough all of his forearm, as It bends Its head down towards him. 

Despite the doubt that gnaws worriedly at him, poisonous and dangerous, Joseph does not move. Letting the creature hold his arm as Its cold skull presses into his shoulder, rubbing and nudging against him in an affectionate looking display. A strange move when compared to the monster that had stalked towards him so hungrily not mere minutes ago.

Admittedly, the prophet once more has the urge to touch the beguiling creature; to reach out to It with a loving embrace that promises the salvation that Joseph so desperately wants to give It. Yet, this sweet display is a trap that Joseph dare not be baited into. A devil’s trick to test and judge him; just as he judges those he feeds to It. 

Unhurriedly the creature continues in Its presses, dipping lower to press higher; turning and pushing, sliding up under his chin– Joseph freezes, his heart skipping in its rhythmic beat as his throat tightens under a harsh swallow. Sweat beading down his face and into his beard, as Its mouth fits snugly around his neck. Moving closer until It cannot unhinge Its jaw any further. Teeth grazing tormentingly against Joseph’s jugular as It hisses frostily; stringy saliva dribbling onto Joseph’s shirt, dampening it coldly against the bare skin beneath. 

To his credit the preacher does not jolt, nor does he even make an attempt to escape the creature’s hold, despite how much fear and the instinct it adheres to tell him otherwise. Instead he allows It to breathe against him. Goosebumps pebbling his skin in response to the unnatural chill that bleeds from It; a dry bite of winter dread in the impassioned throws of a summer worry. All of Joseph’s restraint going into being as still and non-threatening as possible; submissive and pliable in the void of this creature’s lost eyes.

It’d be more than unfortunate to fall at such a momentous interaction, after all. To perish while his divinely given duty lay incomplete, and this unfortunate creature is left to remain eternally condemned. 

Besides, Joseph knows – just as surely as he knows the voice of his Lord – that their hold is not a malevolent one; only acting out as a warning and display to the dangers that such a monstrous form can inflict when pressed and tested. Reacting to the instincts that drive them in the name of self-preservation and survival; to the hunger that beckons them like a lustful siren on the shores of eldritch planes. Too tempting to ignore the allure, despite the frenzy that will blanket and consume them once they get a taste.

Yet, they do not succumb. Even as the foolish preacher mindlessly raises his hand to touch the chilled ivory of the creature’s skull – Its breath stopping to mimic the sudden stillness of the air around them; the wilderness frozen in a tense moment of paralysing alarm – It does not listen to the urges that surely compel It.

It merely stands, with Joseph in Its hold, as the shadows rear up among the trees with wide firefly eyes; pale lights warbling like the flame from a melting candle in the darkest of hours. Eager and famished and slobbering at the remains this creature among monsters will surely leave for them, these unknown vultures of the dark; unseen but forever lurking in the blood of cursed moralities and haunted existences. Horrors alive in the eyes of maddened minds.

The victims of such horrors however, do not appreciate their stalkers’ voyeurism; nor their displays of such corrosive loyalty (eternal as the void and just as consuming). 

There is a low rumble, a rise of something thick and tangibly raw; an emotion painted with threatening strokes and wounded lines. The creature’s feathers raising lazily with the sound, vibrating as they start to stand on end; their rustling getting louder and louder and quicker and quicker the higher they rise. The rumbling getting deeper and deeper along with them. A low base that begins to thump like a raging pulse through the earth and Its skull; Joseph’s own hand and arm quivering under the vibrations. The creature puffing heavily against the preacher’s exposed throat as if Wrath itself was the one upon him; breathing pure rage into his skin and around his neck. A noose fashioned by carnage and a trembling maw of teeth.

A noose that when dropped-

It snaps. Teeth scraping against each other – sharp like cutlery squealing against a plate – as It tears away. Barely catching the skin of Joseph’s neck as the creature throws Its head high, back arching as It shrieks around a strangled, weezing roar; cuttingly pained and excruciating. Claws nicking at Joseph’s arm as It pulls away from him, holding Its head tightly as It screams up at the heavens; bone screeching on bone as It grips and rips at skin that isn’t there. 

Shadows quickly falling silent as It turns Its wrath upon them, sockets blazing with a bitter hatred that defies understanding – a deep resentment that only It grasps and battles with; hidden demons thrashing recklessly beneath Its skin – as Its head lashes back and forth around the woodland that surrounds them. Screaming at all that lurk within the tangled limbs of the labyrinthian woodland. Hand suddenly striking out at the forgotten wheelbarrow, claws swiping savagely at the metal – blades squealing against pipes – as it is knocked to the ground; bodies tumbling onto the turned-over soil as the blood spills like a shattered bowl of sauce. 

All the while It shrieks. Volume gradually dying as It starts to slump from Its imposing height. Falling back onto Its hunches, curling into Itself like the feeble creature It pretends to be, with a sighing wheeze of a hiss; the sound tired, but layered above a throaty rumble. Another warning to the shadows that stand by like overzealous spectators. Hands returning to cradle Its skull, claws catching in the dip of Its sockets as It stares off daringly into the silenced night; at the audience that watches them with captured breaths. 

Their roar of applause is nothing more than a quiet whimper.

And the preacher does not fair much better.

Hesitantly, with a quaking hand, Joseph touches where their teeth had grazed. Fingers brushing weakly over the same space that the creature’s mouth had been not even a moment ago. Swallowing thickly as a shudder runs down his spine; the chill of their skull still lingering on his palm, the swift terror of their explosive outburst still coursing through his blood, the sheer anguish in their fractured scream still ringing in his ears; so pained and lost and _scared_ … 

Like a child. A child unaccustomed to the brutality of their own emotions, ignorant to the dominance it can hold over even the most placid of souls; lashing out. Blinded by a lack of control – instinct taking over – until the rage fades into a hollowed chasm, filled with a ravaging regret and a damning despair.

A guilty conscious at play; even when there is nothing to feel guilty of.

Joseph understands, though. They are merely misunderstood. Lost within the clutches of this gluttonous curse, unable to escape its tangled coils despite how much they may struggle. Desperately in need of aid and righteous guidance in order to free themselves from this voracious disease; and Joseph can help them with that. He is the only one that _can_ help them with that.

Yet, even so, the reality of such a close encounter, as sudden and aggressive as it was, leaves Joseph feeling uncharacteristically weak and fragile; disturbingly human. Once so untouchable, so sure and steadfast when stood upon his given pedestal; resolute when challenged by the non-believers and unflinching when creating examples out of the Judas’ of their community, now left to tremble and face the adversary to his morality. Alone, once again, in a cruel and uncaring world; at the mercy of a wild society, ruled by monsters, fighting for their place within the highrises of the food-chain. A constant game and battle that his brother John knows better than most.

He pauses at that. Watching as the creature ducks away from him, retreating until It turns to slowly grip and lean over the abused wheelbarrow; snuffling suspiciously at the discarded bodies as It stains Its ivory snout in specks of brownish-red. Its random tantrum cast aside and forgiven, excused by the narrative that Joseph spins and weaves and convinces himself to believe in. His assumptions made fact under the weight of his conviction and justification. 

The thought of his brother however, of both his siblings and his followers – of his _family_ – is a lingering one; as persistent and gripping as an emotion. He had never considered the possibility of things going awry; of him never returning to any of them again. So unwaveringly confident in the plans whispered to him, in the bright and sin-free future promised to him and his brothers. Joseph had never considered the torture his departure would surely cause them, the questions he would leave behind if that close encounter moments ago had ended differently.

After all, he never tells them of his late night wanderings; never tells them about the many exchanges he has under innocuous starlight. Just like he has never told them of his secret meetings with their biggest opposer. Of their time spent in silent comforts and comfortable silences, their once tense encounters turned soft and rueful under their mutual truce. His beloved Deputy, a beautiful and misguided soul for him and him alone to save. A sweet secret shared only between him and himself; their vulnerability his to protect, their honesty his to cherish, their soul his to love and possess; just as much as his is theirs.

They may not even realise it yet, may not see the grander picture at play, the interwoven future those small moments are creating for them, but it is there. It is as real as his congregation. As real as the night’s cold and disgruntled nip. As real as the creature appraising his gifted offering with an open jaw; a low clicking purring in Its throat like mumbled words. 

Joseph loves his brothers, dearly so, and without a doubt would do absolutely anything for them. However, it would seem that there are some secrets that are worth keeping. Despite the dangers that may come with them.

Joseph truly is a selfish man.

With a fresh hesitancy in his heart, his unfaltering faith giving leeway under his rattled confidence, the prophet takes a step forward. The crunch of grass and scuff of dirt unmistakably loud in the empty clearing; the wind nothing more than a ghostly breath.

The once eager audience, so hungry for the thrill that only a raw kill can bring, salivating over the temptation of such savagery and bloodshed, are nowhere in sight. Forced back into the deepest confines of a tormented mind. Suppressed by a shaking will desperate to hold on to at least a semblance of its true self. The instinctual compulsion that they invoke, that they are, temporarily silenced by their unwilling host; a cursed mortality haunted by demons that only It can see.

Languidly, not even acknowledging the approaching preacher, the creature reaches out to curl Its boney fingers around one of the dead cultist’s arms. Unhurriedly dragging it until the body is almost beneath them. Shifting to hunch over the body as drool begins to wet Its teeth, head lightly swinging as if looking from one spot to another; quietly deciding which part to start with first. Its head stills in the movement however once It notices the bare arm still in Its loosened hold, covered with religious tattoos and crudely branded scars.

There is a brief rumble, a deep purr misconstrued as a thoughtful hum, when Joseph comes to a halt beside the creature. The sound fading into an uneasy silence as the preacher grows apprehensive. The impulse to touch Them once more rearing its head with a newfound itch; a scratching want to try again. One that the prophet debates internally for nary a minute, before he makes his decision.

Cautiously, with residual fears speaking up with whispered warnings, Joseph places his hand upon the creature’s skull yet again; fingers trailing smoothly along the groves and indents to spread flat across Its ivory bone. The creature holds still at the touch; Its exposed jaw twitching ever so slightly as a familiar clicking sound starts up again. Too high pitched to merely come from the knocking of bared teeth against one another, and more on par with the rapid clicking of one’s tongue. Although, oddly more guttural. As if it were an actual vocalisation and not a manufactured sound; a natural means of communication.

Gently the prophet’s digits curl against the bone, brushing it softly as he starts to straighten them. Repeating the motion to lightly scratch at the creature’s head like one might a beloved pet; a small display of affection and offered forgiveness.

With a few more clicks, tapped out between the fangs of an open maw, the creature’s head lowers; Joseph’s hand never breaking contact as he runs it up and through the creature’s iridescent plumage. Entranced by the shimmer in Its dark feathers between his fingers, as It slips Its jaws around the stiff arm in Its hold. Teeth pressing down, coming together until the bones begin to bend and struggle; gradually starting to splinter and snap under the pressure. A faint pink staining the pale bone of Its teeth as It tears through the rigid flesh; squished and stripped away as the creature starts to bite and pull and chew at the toughened muscle. Curiously gentle, despite Its earlier aggression. 

“That’s it,” Joseph praises quietly. “That’s it, my child. It’s okay. You are safe here, you are safe with me. There is nothing to fear, for you know I do not judge you. I would never judge you. I know you are merely misunderstood, that you are here for a reason. What that reason is, I do not know for certain. But, what I do know is that there is no shame in this. There is no shame to be found in this consumption. You are doing us a service, you are doing _me_ a service, and that should be thanked and celebrated…” 

All the while Joseph strokes the creature. Hand petting and running through Their pretty feathers as the other comes up to bury itself beneath Their charcoal fur. Continuing to soothe the creature with silent words of praise, religious devotion, and the quiet hum of his favoured song. Watching with a passive smile as the creature starts to feast on his offering. On the corpses of those proven unworthy in the eyes of his Lord; dirty lambs from both his own family and the Resistance’s.

With the squelching of flesh and sharp crack of bone, guttural rumbles growling contently through the clearing, the self proclaimed Father glances to the side; gaze drawn to an unusual glimmer that he had not noticed before. Concealed by the torn scraps of clothing that rest like forgotten memories, not even a couple of steps away from him. Joseph had thought nothing much of the shredded material when he had first entered the area, paying it only a few lines of acknowledgment and nothing more; but now that his priority is accounted for and fed, the preacher finds himself paying it a bit more mind. And, interestingly enough, there is something about the clothing that sparks a feeling of recognition in him.

With his hands still affectionately petting at the creature, never pulling away, Joseph walks around Them to come closer to the ruined uniform; its olive green colouration blending in well with the turned-over grass and dirt. The origins of the unusual shine that had caught his eye finally becoming more noticeable and distinctive the closer he gets: a lone feather, dark as the abyss, but prismatic under the moon’s hallowed glow, innocently peeking out from underneath the dirtied fabric; its familiar shimmer bringing a soft frown to the preacher’s face the longer he looks at it. His hands falling away from the creature as he takes a tentative step towards the aged and shredded clothing.

It is then that Joseph notices a muddied name badge. Discoloured from the rest of the uniform, but still visible despite the fraying material and the stains that decorate it. The stitched lettering intact and surprisingly legible.

The preacher’s eyes go wide at the sight. Mouth opening slightly as he reads over the name on the badge. Quickly frowning before he turns to his monstrous companion, who is already looking at him. Instead of the shock that should strike him in that moment, the unbelievable and possible horror that should grip and keep him away from Them, Joseph instead walks towards Them. Hands arrogantly reaching out to take Their head into his palms. Fingers curling around Their lower jaw as he coaxes Them closer towards him; allowing the prophet to press his forehead against the bridge of Their snout.

The creature’s characteristic clicking starts up again, quietly and questioningly, at the action.

“My child, this truly is a day to be celebrated,” Joseph starts with a breathless quality. “To think that you would bless me with such a gift. That you would choose such a time as now to reveal yourself to me. To reveal your _true_ self to me…” The prophet trails off with an airy chuckle, gently shaking his head; rubbing it absently against Their own. “I cannot quite believe it. My dear child, my sweet misunderstood creature…”

“My darling, darling _Rook_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Any kudos or comments are greatly appreciated! 😁💖


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